


Ordinary Men I thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: FlickSlash. Some thoughts about the hospital scene.





	Ordinary Men I thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Ordinary Men I: They Also Serve by Halrloprillalar

ORDINARY MEN: NOTES  
The story with no sequel, "They Also Serve," grew one and now seems to have officially become a series, with a brand new official series name, Ordinary Men.  
I'm reposting the first two stories with the revised titles just for completeness. As well, I've revised "They Also Serve" very slightly to include Mulder's movie dialogue about "Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow...Toto."  
These stories are strange and not very joyful. But I hope they explore some interesting corners. I'm trying to build on bits and pieces of canon, so things have turned out differently than I planned.

"Us, and them.  
 And after all we're only ordinary men.  
 Me, and you.  
 God only knows it's not what we would choose to do."  
 -- Pink Floyd

Halrloprillalar "Hal"   
http://come.to/prillalar  
25 October 1998  
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Archive/X, elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is OK.  
RATING: PG13 for M/M sexual situations.  
SPOILERS: The Movie.  
SUMMARY: FlickSlash. Some thoughts about the hospital scene.  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me. Some of the dialogue is taken from the X-Files movie.

* * *

They Also Serve  
by Halrloprillalar <>

The smell is the worst, the combination of antiseptic, illness, bad food, and worry that's the same in every hospital everywhere. They probably get it from a central supplier, in spray cans labelled "Anxiety."

Mulder lies in the bed, decorated with a bloodied temple and a nose tube. Hurt, unconscious, in over his head. Not again. Again.

I stand and watch and guard, trying to breath through my mouth.

Why does he fucking do this all the time? Why didn't he call us before he got shot in the head, when we could have been of some use? Why doesn't he fucking call?

Langly and Frohike argue about something, a cadence so familiar that the words don't matter, only the melody. Bickering in the dark. So normal. I study Mulder's face, calm in oblivion: stubble on the jaw, lashes on the cheek...fluttering...

"I think he's coming out of it." I call the others and we stand around him.

He struggles awake and lets fly a Mulder-quip so we'll know he's OK. Thank God. Explanations ensue and I watch his face crease into remembrance.

He sits bolt upright. "Where's Scully?"

We explain that too, what little we know. Concern mounts in his expression. How can such small changes make such a difference to what I see?

"I've got to get to her." Before we can do much of anything, he struggles out of bed, standing precariously in his dignity-robbing gown. In the middle of this, the door swings open and Skinner comes back in, bee-lining to his woozy agent.

I'm glad he's here. Maybe Mulder will listen to him. We know a lot about Skinner, of course, but we'd never met him until last night. He was in the room when we arrived, pacing and sitting and filling the room with so much ambient energy that some of it must have soaked into Mulder. We didn't chat, just gave him what we knew, but it was good to have him there.

We don't trust him, of course, at least officially. Frohike watched him like a hawk. Langly couldn't make himself stay in the same room for too long, but I think that had more to do with Skinner reminding him of his father. So the vending machines were well and truly visited, providing us with undrinkable coffee we consumed cup after cup of and with candy and snacks we opened and left untasted.

Me, well, officially I still don't trust him either, but after a night of silent shared concern, I think I can be fairly sure he at least wants to be on Mulder's side. For today, that will do.

Skinner grabs Mulder by the shoulder, holding him up, holding him down, holding him there.

"Mulder, easy, easy. Look, you're staying right here."

"You don't understand," Mulder says. "This goes all the way back to Dallas."

Skinner persists. "Tell me where she is, I'll find her."

Listen to him, Mulder. We'll go. A flash inside my head and I'm back in another hospital, smelling the anxiety, running down the hall to her for him. I'll do it again.

"I don't know where she is. But I can think of someone who might."

Skinner's in his face, as if proximity might help convince him. "You leave here unprotected, how far will you get? How far will they let you get? Because they'll know the minute you walk out of here."

"What can we do?"

I start. Langly. Why didn't I say that?

Mulder looks around. He fixes on me and his eyes narrow.

"You can strip Byers naked."

"What?!" It's a dream, that would explain the non sequitur. I'll do a lucidity check and then I'll fix everything, wake up, and not be standing here confused and painfully red.

"I need your clothes."

Of course you do. I always thought that giving someone the shirt off your back was just a lame cliche, but I'll risk any number of cliches for Mulder right now.

I shuck my outfit. There's no time for embarrassment, but I fit it in anyhow. Mulder gets my suit; I get the gown and the bloody bandage. I wish that by wearing these I could wear his injury as well.

Then I'm tucked up in the bed, face towards the wall and Mulder's out the door, Frohike and Langly in tow. I didn't even get to touch his shoulder and say good luck. Skinner paces again, talking on his phone. God, I want to pace too.

Five minutes go by. I count the seconds--nothing else to do. He pulls the curtain further closed around the bed and sits down at my side. For a minute we stare at each other.

"Thank you." We speak together, our gratitude meeting in midair. The ghost of a smile touches his face. Mine too.

He hooks off his glasses and rubs his temples. His eyes are large and deep before they close. His face looks like the castle gates just before the battering ram. Such a big man, so much responsibility. People probably assume that physical strength means emotional strength. That might be true, to a point, but after a while it crumbles away.

I sit up. I know his stomach twists like mine does, his mind conjures up all-too-speakable visions, his muscles burn with adrenalin. He needs to act. Like I do.

So I reach out and put my hand just above his knee, feeling the energy coiling just beneath the cloth, and I speak.

"I'm sure he's only used up six or seven of his lives so far."

He looks up and again a smile haunts his face. "I hope so. Because I'm going to kill him when he gets back." He doesn't touch me, but he doesn't tense up either. Maybe it's just that he can't get any tenser.

I leave my hand there. The connection helps me. I think it helps him too. We sit. We wait.

"Dammit, we should have gone instead." I'm not sure he knows he spoke aloud. His hand closes around mine, gripping painfully.

We should have gone. We. "Yes," I breathe. I'm not sure he heard me.

I lean closer to him. "He would have hated us. And himself. But we should have gone."

He's so strong. My fingers hurt. He's not Mulder. I'm not Mulder. But we're here and we're connected and we can't do a damn thing. We're falling inward, pain and worry and need and want and Mulder snaking around us, pulling us to each other.

"We should have gone," he says and his breath is coffee-warm against my face.

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes."

That's all it takes. Our mouths clash, teeth banging, tongues plunging savagely. I thought I felt his strength before; this is ten times the fury. I drink it down greedily.

How long do we battle, giving and taking? After a while, the anger abates and now we feed each other comfort. I lift my other hand to press against his face, sliding it around behind his neck. He holds my shoulder, fingers slipping just beneath the gown.

Then I feel the slow burn flare up in me and feel it in him too, feel it on his skin and in his mouth. Panic sours the kiss and we break apart.

We look at each other. There's nothing to say. He doesn't let go of my hand. I don't try to draw it away.

His eyes close. "We should have gone."

Yes, my hand says, warm between his palm and his knee.

We wait, like we're supposed to. After dreary years, Frohike and Langly return with clothes for me. When they enter, Skinner's up and pacing again.

He stops and fixes me with one more long gaze. "I'll call as soon as I hear anything."

And then he's gone.

F I N I S

Any thoughts? I'd love to know them. 

 

* * *

 

12/14/98  
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Archive/X, elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is OK.  
SPOILERS: Up to and including Triangle (season 6).  
RATING: PG13 for M/M stuff.  
SUMMARY: TriSlash. Some thoughts about the hospital scene. I know what I saw.  
NOTE ONE: This is a follow up to "They Also Serve," which dealt with the hospital scene in the movie. If you haven't read that, you won't necessarily understand this. You can find it, among other places, at my website: http://come.to/prillalar  
NOTE TWO: For the purposes of this story, I am assuming that everything between the scenes of Mulder in the water was part of his dream, FBI bits and all, but that the hospital scene really happened. I'm still not firm in this, but it's my best theory so far.  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me. Some of the dialogue is taken from Triangle.  
This time, many thanks to the man behind the curtain, who made this possible.  
November 1998

* * *

The Lunatic Is In My Head  
by Halrloprillalar <>

That smell again, acrid, antiseptic, hinting at pain, death, and warm green jello. I hate it. Hate the hospital, hate that every time I'm here it's to see Mulder. At least this time it's a happy ending visit.

At least this time I can keep my clothes on.

Mulder looks like hell, like someone who nearly drowned, someone who's just woken up after a hundred years sleep.

He looks wonderful. And he looks at Scully, bubbling with the Mulder-version of events.

I've barely taken this all in when the air stirs behind me. A huge man, with flowers. Skinner.

Mulder notices. "And he was there, too."

Skinner moves with vitality to spare, tossing down the bouquet, teasing Mulder with easy familiarity. "Right. Me and my dog Toto."

Mulder and hospital rooms and Wizard of Oz jokes. Deja vu all over again.

"No, you were there with the Nazis."

Scully leans over him. "Mulder, will you settle down? It's an order."

"Not that he takes orders..." Skinner catches my eye and a memory trickles down my spine like a drop of cold sweat, his worried eyes the last time we met in Mulder's hospital room, the bitter taste of fear and coffee that we shared. I don't know what Mulder tastes like. I wonder if he does.

Skinner comes back to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the cushion of his body heat. Or maybe I'm imagining that. The fine hairs at the back of my neck shiver a little and almost stand up.

I haven't seen him since that day. We've exchanged information a few times, but Frohike is his contact--alpha to alpha, I suppose. I think they meet and drink beer and don't talk about Viet Nam. But I've never asked.

The others talk to Mulder, I don't. The weak, silent type: that's me. I watch Mulder with my usual shrouded intensity. Sublimation is bad for the soul, but it's a good social skill.

I'm not the only one watching Mulder, but Mulder's alone with Scully in whatever magical land he's inhabiting today. Another glance from Skinner penetrates my peripheral vision. He sees them too.

"Get some rest, Mulder," he all but growls, "'cause when you get out of here I'm going to kick your butt but good."

I don't want to think about that.

We leave Mulder and Scully to whatever Peter Pan and Wendy thing they've got going and troop out, the Lost Boys in the hall.

After we get a few doors down, we stop. Skinner's beside me again. I've never known anyone who is as *there* as he is. It's not just bulk, it's a sense of concentrated energy, so much that he radiates it. And I'm in the corona.

Langly checks his watch. "We've got time for food."

"You in?" Frohike asks Skinner. He nods and Langly shoots Frohike a nervous glare.

"Where to?" Got to say *something*, John.

"Down and Out OK?" Frohike looks around for objections. "But let's wait in case Scully wants to come."

Scully. I don't think I want to see her. The one who could have what I want, maybe taking it as we speak. I feel a ripple of tension in Skinner too. I suspect things are more complex for him than they are for me.

She's walking towards us. Frohike steps out to meet her, adjusting his smile to the half-leer she expects. "Agent Scully, we're going out to eat. Would you give us the pleasure of your company?"

She runs her eyes over the gaggle of us and smiles. "Thanks, but I'm going to stay for awhile. Someone's got to keep an eye on him."

I'll stay. But I don't say it.

One more smile and she's back down the hall, stopping at the nurses' station. Frohike turns back to us and shakes his head. "She's throwing herself away on him."

A low rumble that might be a laugh pulls my head around to look at Skinner. "Come on," he says, "let's go."

***

At the Down and Out, I end up across from him in the booth. Frohike and Langly rave over the Grease & Suds special, but I'm for white wine and there's enough grease on the salads here to meet my RDA without having the Heart Attack Platter as well. Skinner opts for a sandwich and tonic water.

When the drinks arrive, Frohike lifts his glass. "We've kept him alive for another day. Good job, men." So we toast ourselves. Fortune favours the foolish by giving them friends like us.

"How did you guys meet Mulder, anyhow?" Skinner glances around the table.

Langly and I check Frohike for our cue. "He subscribed to our newsletter."

Langly chimes in. "He used to write us letters that were weirder than our articles."

My turn. I don't want to lie to him. "So we checked him out and thought he'd be a good source." I look him in the eye as I speak. He looks back.

"I owe you guys," he says. "If you ever need a favour..."

I know what Langly's going to say, what he says to Mulder every few months or so.

"Mitnick."

Skinner leans in a bit, frowning. "You know I can't get Mitnick."

"It was worth a try." Langly seems less jittery now that he's gotten that off.

"How about one of Hoover's dresses, then?" Frohike smirks. "I know he wasn't Langly's size, but Byers is a wizard at alterations."

Time for my "just a simple tailor" line, but I don't feel like playing. Skinner chuckles and the others join in. I smile a little.

The conversation shifts, of course, to Mulder, each trying to top the other with proud anecdotes of his rash and brilliant stupidity. Even I talk this time.

"Frohike, remember when he made you go camping in Northern Canada to look for the Sasquatch--"

Langly breaks in: "--and that bear knocked over your tent while you were inside sleeping?"

"He swore Scully was meeting us there. That's the only reason I went." Frohike swigs down some beer. "Or how about that time he dragged us all out to Chicago chasing some new evidence about Flight 553?"

"Which there was." I'm glad I can say that. So often there's nothing.

"And that *almost* makes up for him waking us up on X-Day to tell us we hadn't been vaporised."

"Langly, you were the only one still sleeping," Frohike reminds him.

Skinner seems amused by all this. His mouth twitches slightly and I hope he's got a story for us. He doesn't disappoint.

"A low point for me was the time I had to rescue him from Lyndon LaRouche."

I can't believe I've never heard about this. Frohike almost spills his beer.

"Mulder went to see LaRouche and he didn't tell us?"

"Actually..." Skinner pushes back his plate and rests his elbows on the table. "LaRouche went to see Mulder. Had him trapped in his apartment for six hours while he raved at him. Cuffed to a chair. Mulder managed to call me while LaRouche was out of the room. Wouldn't tell me how it happened though, and he wouldn't let me report the parole violation."

Amazing. We continue for a while, letting the lighter stories rise to the top and leaving the darker tales undisturbed on the bottom. Then Langly checks his watch. "Guys, we should go. Thirty minutes to show time."

Damn, I'd forgotten about the movie. "Better go without me. I'm not really in the right frame of mind." I'm not in the mood to be taken out of myself by an interesting cultural experience. I'd rather sit on the couch in the dark, play sad music, and wallow in misery and martyrdom.

Frohike shoots me a hard stare. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. I'll go tomorrow." I glance to my right. "You'll want to go back, Langly, right?"

"How about you, Skinner?" Frohike turns to him. "We're off to see The Wizard. You can use Byers' Discman." Langly is throwing "don't you dare" signals at Frohike. He must think if Skinner sees him toking on the way to the theatre, he'll drag him off to jail. Frohike ignores it. "Come over to the Dark Side."

Skinner looks first at Langly and then Frohike. "Thanks, but I'll take a rain check." Back to Langly. "So relax."

Langly doesn't answer, just slides out of the booth. Frohike holds out his hand and Skinner shakes it. Bills on the table and they're gone. I drink my wine, wanting to finish it up and get out as well. Setting down the glass, I catch sight of Skinner's face and I'm surprised by the lines I see there suddenly, creases of concern, weariness and just a touch of sorrow.

We have to stop meeting like this--I almost say it aloud. I feel like I should have been obsessing about our last encounter, playing it over and over again in my mind as I lie awake at night. In fact, I haven't. Some things I sublimate, some things I just don't think about.

But now I wish I had. It would be something, anyway, something to share. I want to show myself a little, make myself vulnerable to someone who will understand.

"He helped me," I say. "Helped me find someone important to me. It was dangerous and it was stupid." Some things I think about all the time.

"His area of expertise, then." Dry amusement flattens out the words.

A smile flits across my face. "I suppose so. It was...years ago. It didn't end well, but that was something else entirely." Some people wouldn't be satisfied with such vague explanations, but I know he won't press me.

There's a moment of silence and I wonder if I should leave. Then he sits back, hands flat against the table, and speaks.

"He trusted me when things looked bad. More than once."

He trusts me too. I know that. And if I have to have one thing and not the other, I'll choose the trust.

Skinner's face is still shadowed with fatigue and his shoulders sag a fraction. I can't help myself--I reach out and cover his hand with mine, hoping that somehow we can strengthen each other.

Subconsciously I was expecting some sort of instant and electric connection, but all I feel is the warmth of flesh on flesh. He doesn't shake me off, for all we're in this bar.

He clears his throat. "Scully--"

I cut him off. "I don't want to talk about Scully." I don't want to think about Scully. We're damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. Scully. A sudden red moment of hungry rage and mad lust pulses through me and I feel like I could take on anyone here, fight them or fuck them, whichever they chose. Fuck you, Mulder, for getting inside of me this way. Fuck you.

My hand is trembling. I swallow down the bile as quickly as it rises and all is calm again. His eyes are moving from side to side and I feel him about to pull away. But first he lays his other hand on top of mine and meets my eyes, leaning forward to speak...

He changes his mind, sits back and takes his hands away, rummaging for his wallet.

After all, we're only ordinary men.

"Come on," he says, "I'll drive you home."

F I N I S

So, was a sequel a good idea or a mistake? Be honest. The looks in the hospital room were my undoing. <g> This and other thoughts can be forwarded to where they will be much appreciated.

 

* * *

 

DISTRIBUTION: OK for Archive/X, elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is OK.  
SPOILERS: Up to and including S.R. 819 (season 6).  
RATING: R for M/M stuff.  
SUMMARY: S.R.Slash. At the point in the series, I think I can admit to Skinner/Byers right here in the summary. Some thoughts about hospitals and missing scenes.  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
Currently the Ordinary Men series consists of:  
They Also Serve  
The Lunatic Is In My Head  
FAHRENHEIT 451

January 1999

* * *

Ordinary Men III: Fahrenheit 451  
by Halrloprillalar <>

The smell of paper is all around me, musty, yellowing paper and the smudged prints of a thousand pairs of hands. The shelves and racks maze me in and I turn corners until I'm dizzy.

Hmm, Jeffrey Archer -- "As the Crow Flies." Rags to riches, not bad. Or "The Far Side Gallery." Humour is good, but not everybody really appreciates Larson. I'm not sure I always do. Keep looking.

For all I do my work on computers, I often vaguely feel as if I'd spent hours and hours poring over old books, dusty reams of tedious paper, until my hands were dry with chalky dirt. My mind too.

Bodice rippers -- no thank you, not even Fabio. Girls' mystery series -- where are the Hardy Boys? Literature -- no to Conrad, no to Dickens, no to the biographies of Elvis, Elvis, Elvis.

He's in the hospital. Him. Skinner. Mulder called Frohike, after the panic was all over. Of course. Like Tootles, I've missed the excitement again. Dammit, Mulder.

Dammit, Mulder.

Some oversize books -- Richard Scarry, "What Do People Do All Day?" Somehow, I don't think any of our jobs are in here. But sometimes it would be nice just to be Able Baker Charlie or Huckle the Cat, hanging out with Lowly Worm. Come on, John, have to keep looking. Westerns, mysteries, science fiction...

I ought to go see him. I'm not sure whether or not I really want to and so I've been procrastinating. But I have to go. There's no such thing as coincidence and we're connected somehow... Mulder...hospitals...

"A Barnstormer in Oz" by Philip Jose Farmer. No such thing as coincidence. It's a strange book, but a good one.

There's a manual cash register, so I pay with bills. With my gloves on, I fumble my change, but don't drop it. No line up, so no-one to annoy.

Outside, the dark-roasted smells of a nearby coffee house tickle at me and I'm tempted to stay for a while. Have a latte and look at this book while I still own it. Put this off. Why am I even going?

But suddenly I find I'm on the sidewalk, heading down the street. Just a few blocks, an elevator ride, another maze of halls and smells and corners and blood humming in my ears.

There it is. His room. Right there. Get a grip, John. Stuff your gloves in your pocket and go in. Don't just stand out in the hall. Deep breath, through the door.

Skinner's there, standing by the bed in a bathrobe. Dark blue. He looks...for a man who went through what he did, he looks amazingly good. But compared to what I've seen before, he looks wrung out and tired. No glasses to hide weary eyes. Embers. He doesn't hear me come in.

"Hi." Now he looks up and catches my eye. My anxiety goes down as the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't come before."

"That's OK." He remains standing; I'm not sure why. "In fact, I just discharged myself."

My God, and he looks like he's going to fall over any minute. "Are you sure--"

"I'm sure. I have to get out of here."

I don't know why I expected anything different. I still don't know why I'm here at all, why I thought he'd want to see me or I him. I become aware of the book in my hand. It seems silly now. But still... "I brought you this." Three steps closer and I hold it out. "Sorry, it's second hand."

Taking it from me, he looks at it and runs one hand across the cover.

Oh. His hand. Oh. I'm feeling something now, something from deep inside me running hot and cold along my nerves and through my veins. A moment, the sight of his palm sliding over the book, and now I want him. I want him. So simple and at the same time so hideously complex. John, I didn't know you cared.

John, when are you ever going to want someone you can actually have?

His eyes are on me. I hope I'm not blushing. Am I blushing? Why the hell would I be blushing?

"It looks interesting, thank you. I suppose I was expecting 'Catcher in the Rye' or something. I'll read it while I'm recuperating at home."

Thank God he's not planning to go right back to work. But I'm keeping him standing. Maybe I can... "Do you need a ride home?"

His eyes again. Why doesn't he say something?

"I was going to get a cab." Dark eyes, shuttered, flicking off to the left.

Let me. "It's no bother." Please.

"OK, then. Thank you." He still almost stares at me. Do I have a stain on my jacket? Picking up his glasses, he puts them on, cutting the intensity of his gaze. "I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes."

"I'll go get the car. Do you have anything you'd like me to carry down now?" I wish he'd stay here and let them look after him.

"No, I don't have much here. I'm fine."

Sure. "I'll wait out front then."

He nods and goes towards his locker. I leave, attempting to retrace my steps and find the same elevator I took up here. Riding down and walking to the car, I try to ignore the turmoil of my mind and body. After all, it's nothing new, just a different object for my unrequited love.

Behind the steering wheel now; thank God I didn't take the Mystery Machine. Where was I? Unrequited love. Love? That doesn't seem the mot juste, somehow. But I don't really know what else to call it. Eros tosses his ball at me and it smacks me upside the head. I never was any good at dodgeball.

I pull up into the loading zone and wait. There he is, wearing a suit and tie, God knows why, and I can see doesn't hang quite right. He's carrying two bags and one looks heavy. Books maybe. I jump out to unlock the trunk and take the heavy bag. Books. We're too close to the car for him to protest me carrying it.

Buckled in and driving out, I ask for directions. He navigates for me, leaning back in the seat. There are so many questions I want to ask him about the technical side of what happened to him, but he won't talk unless he wants to. I think.

And then we're there. I stop the car. Is he going to be OK? We both get out and I unlock the trunk, pull out his bag, hang on to it. I *will* carry it up.

He must know that, since he just glances at it and leads the way in. Uneasy quiet in the elevator, jangle of keys dropped outside the apartment -- he bends to pick them up before I can. It's a mistake. He sways against the door for a moment, then he's fine. Unlock, inside.

I carry the bag in a little way before I put it down, let the door close behind me. I want to steal a glance of his life before I go, to mull over during the white night that is sure to follow. The room is spare and not quite elegant. It's enough to live in, not enough to care about.

So we stand awkward by the door. For all we've sat and talked and, dammit, kissed, we really don't know each other at all, do we? A fraction of a second before he'd have to offer me a drink, I start the goodbye.

"Is there anything else I can do to help?"

He pauses, looks me up and down a moment. Long enough for me to think how you can wear your heart on your sleeve or in your eyes, but mine seems lodged in the back of my throat.

"You don't have to." His gaze shifts a little, like he's uneasy.

Well, John, what will it be? There's no such thing as coincidence. Turn the page. "I want to."

A few steps and he's there. Here. I remember the grip of those hard fingers, the heat of that fierce mouth. I remember the fire. This time, we let it blaze, licking up the dusty pages of my ennui, consuming whatever he still has left in him to burn.

He's still a little unsteady but I wait until he initiates the move to the couch. Shedding our jackets, we drop to the leather. I know what this is, a way for him to prove he's still alive. I fuck, therefore I am. I don't care. I want to prove he's still alive too.

He's not gentle, but he's not rushed either. Rationing his strength. Shirts, ties crumple to the floor and in the back of my mind the mess bothers me a little. Then nothing bothers me except the heat and my hands are tugging up his undershirt, reading his history in the braille of scars and ribs and muscle. He pulls back a little to skin it over his head.

Then he stops.

No. I close my eyes. Don't do this.

"I can't, I can't," he says. "I'm sorry. I can't let you get involved."

Dammit, don't close up on me. "I'm already involved."

"No, this is more, it's...you don't understand. It's *in* me." His eyes are so tired. Ashes. "I'm a dead man." He looks away, his voice twists with bitterness. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to fuck a dead man?"

"She just told me to always wear clean underwear." Did I just *say* that? But, fuck, John, he's right. This man has nanotech in his blood and you've just been sucking his face. How could you be so stupid? So fucking stupid. I think I'm going to throw up. Which would probably do no good at all.

Oh God, he looks so strange. If he starts to laugh, he'll lose it, lose it completely. And so will I.

It should be safe to put my hand on his shoulder. "There has to be something we can do."

"No." Now he won't look at me. "Trust me. There's nothing. Just...go."

But I can't go, at least until I get dressed. Could there be any moment in life more awkward? But I manage and as I button up I try again. "We have contacts. We can find things out. Even if I don't..." No response. But it filled in a few seconds.

Stand up, John. Tie on, jacket on. To the door. Look back. Meet his eyes one more time. Say nothing. Tear out the page, close the book, walk out. Punch the elevator wall.

I sit in the car and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. What now? We have to do something for him. Mulder will help. And, shit, what about me? I'll have to be careful until I can find out. I can't tell anyone. My stomach still churns, all my lust liquefied into fear. And rage. I haven't even started to feel rejected, but that will come soon enough. Tonight.

Time to get out of here. But I can't go back home yet. So, I drive back to the coffee shop. It's cold but I sit outside and drink my latte with shaking hands and wait for the wind to numb me. Better check that I'm not too rumpled -- shirt tucked in, jacket straight. I stand up and look at myself in the window.

I'm wearing his tie.

F I N I S

Sorry that was so depressing. You can vent at .

 

* * *

 

Ordinary Men IV: All Flesh is Grass, by Halrloprillalar  
Category: Slash, R for M/M stuff.  
Spoilers: Up to and including Three of a Kind (season 6).  
Summary: Skinner/Byers. Three of a Kind post-ep, in which the author twists everything to fit her own little slashworld.  
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
The first three stories in this series are They Also Serve, The Lunatic Is In My Head, and Fahrenheit 451.  
May 1999

Us, and them.  
And after all we're only ordinary men.  
Me, and you.  
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do.  
\-- Pink Floyd

* * *

Ordinary Men IV: All Flesh is Grass  
by Halrloprillalar

A groundskeeper is cutting the grass and I breathe deeply, trying to suck down the essence of spring through that smell. It makes me sneeze. Damn hay fever. I guess that is the essence of spring. Like I needed a reminder of the difference between fantasy and reality.

There's a park bench nearby, paint peeling after the winter weather. I've spent a lot of hours not sitting on that bench, imagining it from across town. And I don't sit there now, just stand and watch people passing on the trail.

According to our intell, he should be by soon. I've read his file often these past few months, though I haven't contributed to it. But from what's in it, I think he might understand the loss. The dream.

I think the dream is gone now. It's been a week and that picture out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine has not yet reappeared in my sleep. I can hardly see it now, when I'm awake. I don't know if that's good or not. But I miss it. Miss her.

The pollen in the air is getting to me a bit. Pulling out my handkerchief, I can't help but think of the tie coiled in the drawer beside the neatly folded squares, just where my fingers will brush it every time I reach in. God, but you're a sentimental fool, John. Am I here looking for closure or an opening?

Then I see him coming over the rise, jogging. Skinner. 10:22, Saturday morning, just like the file says. Hands in my pockets, I stand by the trail and watch him. I don't have to call out -- he sees me, slows down, doesn't stop. "Walk with me," he says and I do.

We stay to one side to let the runners past. Sometimes I have to step off the path a little and the ground is soft there. What are you going to do now, John? Didn't you have a plan? A speech? But no, I didn't. So we walk together and our shoulders touch now and again.

"Did you have something for me?" His voice is low.

"No." His face shines with sweat and without his glasses, his eyes are very dark. There's nothing new to give him. Frohike already told him all we could find out about the nanocytes and we didn't learn anything at the conference. Anything about them.

"Then what did you want?"

I look away, at the trees, the grass, the other people. "To see you."

He doesn't respond. We keep walking. I will not panic. I will not. The path takes us to the edge of the park, near the street. From the file, the map, I recognise the location. He still doesn't speak, but a gesture indicates I should follow and so we walk the few blocks to his building.

The air is close in the elevator but the windows in his apartment are open and it's breezy, colder than outside. It's much as I remember it from that last brief glance -- spare but not Spartan. Clean but not gleaming. Nice. Not like my mother's place, with plastic on the furniture and Pine-Sol in the air. Not like the cluttered rooms I live in now.

We stand in the living room, awkward and still, looking at each other. A slow dissolve starts in me, turning my bones to water.

"It's too early to offer you a drink." He looks away for a moment, then back. "Coffee?"

"Thank you, no." Oh God, I want...but will he? After last time? I know now the nanocytes aren't in me and he knows that the possibility of contamination is very low. And I suspect I'd be here anyway. But will he? Come on, John. Reach out and pluck the day.

I can't bring the words to my lips, so I rest one hand on his chest, on the dark, damp stain over his heart. There I feel the indrawn breath, the hold, the long sigh as he covers my hand with his.

We go upstairs. There's a chair in the bedroom and I hang my clothes over the back. Then we're together. He's bigger, he's stronger, but there's a black ferocity in me today. We grapple, struggle, test each other. Nothing chivalric about this fuck. Losing myself in the earthy stink of his sweat, I leave a mark on his chest that won't soon fade. His hands are hard, harder than I remember. His mouth is strong, but curiously sweet. It's overwhelming, a consummation devoutly to be wished, and when I come, I open my eyes so I see only his face.

No wonder people like to smoke after sex -- it gives you something to do to get through those awkward moments while you lie there, waiting for your pulse rate to drop. We're still touching a little, calf and knee. Breathing. "Do you want first shower?" he asks. That must bring the total of spoken words to just above fifty. Not that I've been counting.

I roll off the bed, stubbornly ignoring the self-consciousness that returns with a vengeance, and head into the ensuite. This isn't the kind of fuck where you shower together. When I come out, he walks past me and gives me a hint of a smile.

Dressing quickly, I finish before he's even out. My hair and beard are still wet, but that can't be helped. Did I get what I came for? Catharsis? Orgasm? Is it good manners to leave now or to wait for him?

Light streams in through the window and I go over to breathe the fresh air. I hear the door open, him walking across the carpet, but I don't turn. Standing just behind me, he puts one hand on my shoulder. "Coffee now?"

"Please." He doesn't go just yet, though, and we look out the window together.

Far below, on the apartment lawn, someone is cutting the grass.

F I N I S

Feedback? You can email me at .

 

* * *

 

Ordinary Men V: In His Anger and His Shame, by Halrloprillalar  
Category: Slash, PG13 for M/M stuff.  
Spoilers: Up to and including Biogenesis (season 6).  
Summary: BioSlash. Skinner/Byers. Some thoughts about hospitals and doing what you don't want to do.  
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
May 1999

* * *

Ordinary Men V: In His Anger and His Shame  
by Halrloprillalar

Another day, another hospital. Another trip through the labyrinth, footsteps echoing off the flat white walls and floor. Another meeting with him at the centre of the maze. This is beyond deja vu -- I'm in the fucking Twilight Zone. I'm in the Special Psychiatric Unit. It smells like fear.

There he is, sitting in the hall, fingers twisting and untwisting. Skinner. Turning his head, he looks at me and I can almost see the rage streaming off him, a bruise-coloured aura. Rage not directed at me, but it scares me nonetheless.

Standing near him, I want to reach out and touch his shoulder, but I jam my hands in my pockets instead. We neither of us speak. His eyes burn like coals through the ashes of a long-banked fire. I feel like tinder, like scraps of crumbling moss, like the dryer lint that caused my college dorm to burn down. I clean the trap after every load now.

Your move, John. "Can we see Mulder?" He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "Why not?"

"He's violent. Dangerous. Psychotic."

"You're sure we can't see him?"

"We can't, trust me," he says and looks away, flinching. At what, I'm not sure.

Why then? "You called me."

He stands now, in one swift surge, and faces me. I want to back away. He's too much right now. "I need a ride."

Anywhere. Just don't hurt me. Or yourself. So I nod and we go and mercifully there are others in the elevator on the way down.

In the car, we're quiet until I pull out onto the street, then he gives me directions. Not to his home, that much I can tell. In my peripheral vision, he's still except for his hands, lacing and unlacing his fingers. The despair behind his anger is so obvious to me. Maybe because I've felt it too. Maybe now he'll talk. "Will you tell me? The car -- we swept it. It's clean."

"Nothing is clean."

I let that sit for a minute, then try again. "Maybe I can help..." Silence. Glancing over, I see him staring out the window. He must have been a sullen child. Still, he did call. That's something.

After ten minutes or so, I realise where we're headed -- the gym. When we pull up, he turns to me. "Come in."

"Yes." And I park the car.

Inside, he hands me his phone and waves me to a bench. I slip the phone in my pocket, then sit and look around. It's dim and dank and dingy, the kind of place you'd expect to find Rocky Balboa sparring in the next ring over. What am I supposed to do here? Even if I had gym kit along, I don't...don't do whatever they do. Don't box. Don't push weights. Don't train. Maybe I should.

After a few -- ten? -- minutes reverie, I see him coming out of the locker room, in sweats now and a t-shirt. His hands are wrapped and he carries a pair of gloves. He moves a little differently like this -- lithe, coiled. He's upon me almost before I realise it, not stopping, just indicating I should follow. And, of course, I do.

He leads me to the far end of the gym, to where a row of punching bags hang from a beam, swinging gently. Picking one, he stands by it, just touching it with one white-bound fist. "Hold it for me." For the first time, there's a trace of a question in his tone, just a hint.

"OK." I look at the bag -- it's as grimy as the rest of the equipment here. So I take off my jacket, shirt, and tie, which seems pretty typical for my encounters with this man. There's a bench to lay them on, still not that clean, but better than nothing. Meanwhile, he's pulled on his gloves and dropped his towel next to my stuff.

We square off on either side of the bag, me holding on with both hands, him poised to swing. Without his glasses, his eyes burn stronger with that dull fire I saw before. He strikes. The force of it shudders up through my arms almost into my chest. Again. And again.

At first, his jabs are controlled, precise, but soon that dangerous anger makes its way into his fists and he begins to batter the bag in earnest. Sweat glistens and beads on his face. With each blow, he exhales sharply through his nose, snorting like an enraged bull.

He's violent but it doesn't scare me now. I hold hard and press close to the bag. I have the beat now, breathing out with him as each punch rocks through me. Closing my eyes, I smell the leather and the sweat, hear his breath turn to low panting, an elemental sound, deeper than language. Memory pounds through me, of being in this man's bed, of working out my own rage on this man's body. The rhythm is the same.

How long it's been, I don't know, but I feel like I've been in some sort of fugue state. My arms are aching now, my body is sore. He's still slamming away -- he must be fuguing too. He doesn't look so good. "Stop." I've got to get his attention. "You're done now. Stop." He looks at me, sees me. "Stop. You're done."

He stops, teetering on his heels, chest heaving. Letting go of the bag, I take his arm and push him back onto the bench. I'm not feeling so great myself. He's just sitting there, so I squat in front of him and pull off his gloves. Give him the towel. He wipes his face, then tries to unwrap his hands. His fingers shake, with exhaustion now, not anger, and he can't seem to get it started, so I take over and he lets me. Ripping open the Velcro, unwinding the cotton, I want to grip his hands in mine, want to tell him everything will be OK. Which it won't, of course, but these are the lies that keep us sane.

"You all right?"

Dumbly, he nods. Stands. "Gotta shower." Moves slowly towards the locker room. I don't want to let him -- he should get in the car now, shower at home. But you can't stop this man, at least I can't. So I watch him until he disappears inside, then dress, head back to my bench by the door, check my watch three times in two minutes.

"You FBI too?" It's an older man, grey hair.

"No, just a friend."

"Is he OK?"

No. He's not. "He had a bad day."

Nodding, he sinks down to the bench beside me and treats me to a, well, a blow-by-blow account of Skinner's last match here. I already got this story from Frohike. It's even more boring the second time around. By a huge effort of will, I refrain from looking at my watch again.

Finally, Skinner comes out again. He looks so tired, his eyes are dead again. Or maybe that's just the glasses. We stand and the old guy takes his arm.

"You OK, Slugger?"

Skinner gives him a half-smile. "Yeah, thanks."

"Take care of him," the man admonishes me and heads back out into the gym. We go to the car.

Skinner sits back in the passenger seat, eyes closed. I can find my way from here. It's not far. Even so, he's half asleep when I park by his building. He manages to get out, though, and I go in with him, watching him lean against the elevator wall as we ride up. Then we're in his apartment. He doesn't ask me to stay. I don't offer to leave.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he collapses on the couch while I go pull bottled water out of his refrigerator. When I return, his tie is off, his shirt unbuttoned, and there's a hockey game on. Sitting down beside him, I hand him the bottle and set his cell phone on the coffee table.

"Thank you," he says, looking at me. He takes a drink. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." And we watch the game, neither seeing it, I'm sure. I almost -- almost -- forget about Mulder, about everything. Skinner's knee is against mine and when he leans forward to put down the empty bottle, I rest my arm along the back of the couch, not quite where I'll touch his shoulders. His breathing is slow and measured and by the end of the second period, his head has rolled to the side. Carefully, I move it until it rests against my shoulder, brushing his cheek with my thumb, and, when he doesn't wince, pressing a guilty kiss onto the smooth skin of his scalp.

He's asleep. Loosening my tie, I take the remote from his hand and change the channel to A&E.

F I N I S

In the clearing stands a boxer,  
And a fighter by his trade  
And he carries the reminders  
Of every glove that laid him down  
Or cut him till he cried out  
In his anger and his shame,  
"I am leaving, I am leaving."  
But the fighter still remains.

-Paul Simon, "The Boxer"

Feedback? You can email me at .


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